


double agents

by natalunasans



Series: space for all [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Anxiety, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Audio 049: Master, Bigotry & Prejudice, Bullying Mention, Canon Asexual Character, Canon Temporary Character Death, Comfort Food, Destruction of Gallifrey, Developing Relationship, Eiffel Tower, Episode: s12e01-02 Spyfall, F/M, Fix-It, Friendship, Gallifrey, Gallifreyan Biology (Doctor Who), Gallifreyan Culture (Doctor Who), Gallifreyan History (Doctor Who), Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Hypervigilance, Identity Issues, Illnesses, Injury, Meddling TARDIS, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mindwiping, Nazis, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Nonbinary Doctor (Doctor Who), Other, POV The Doctor (Doctor Who), POV The Master (Doctor Who), POV Yasmin Khan, Painkillers, Physical Disability, Post-Episode: s12e01-02 Spyfall, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Racism, Relationship Negotiation, Scheming, Self-Harm, Spoilers for Episode: s12e01-02 Spyfall, Spoilers for Episode: s12e05 Fugitive of the Judoon, Spoilers for Episode: s12e10 The Timeless Children, Suicidal Thoughts, Tea, Telepathic Bond, Telepathic Intimacy, Telepathy, Texting, Time War (Doctor Who), Timeline Shenanigans, Touch Telepathy, accidentally sadder than canon, but it's still peanuts to space, canon compliance when least expected, death mention, fugitive problems, is it still self harm when it's for science?, lady ada and noor inayat khan are in this but only briefly, relationship as game, the eiffel tower is really frikin big you have no idea, they heal faster but not fast enough to avoid stupid mistakes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:35:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 18,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22234942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natalunasans/pseuds/natalunasans
Summary: starting from inside ep.2 of spyfall, trying to get into first the master's head, then the doctor's, and so on...butyou know me, i can't help myself. have to stick my oar in.so maybe i ...raise their ambitionsa little...
Relationships: The Doctor & The Master (Doctor Who), The Doctor & Yasmin Khan, The Doctor | Ruth Clayton & The Master (Dhawan), The Doctor | Ruth Clayton/The Master (Dhawan), The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who), Thirteenth Doctor & The Master (Dhawan), Yasmin Khan & The Master (Dhawan)
Series: space for all [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1600504
Comments: 140
Kudos: 176
Collections: Doctor Who Hurt/Comfort - Stories from Tumblr





	1. (Master PoV)

**Author's Note:**

> began as just another what-if  
> to see if i could fix the most frustrating parts of spyfall (and then fugitive of the judoon)  
> ...  
> now continuing around the events of the timeless children

**[The Royal Gallery of Practical Science, 1834]**

Finally he's got them where he wants them… or close enough to be going on with. Makes them kneel and call him by his name. 

He kneels too, gets down on their level, actual emotions overflowing into his bravado. He plays it off as if he's mocking them, as if he only loves subjugating them and is savouring the moment. 

_Othersblood_ , he's missed this. Their tones of shock and consternation. Every not-this-again face they pull when he finally thinks up a demand. They’re only prey for half a moment, then that lightning-flash mind is back on the offensive, puzzling out his every weakness in a few inspired questions. It's not the winning he's missed (so much easier without their interference), but the game itself.

The Doctor makes some stinging jibes about the Master’s current plot. Can't they see, it doesn't _matter_ how impractical or foolhardy his plan, and sometimes the less foolproof the better. It doesn’t even matter, he has to admit, which of them is the fool. Nothing matters but plucking them out of their timeline into those all-important fixed points where they intersect with his. 

They’re not _real_ fixed points, though, are they? He’s always gotta work at it. Every single time--

“DOCTOR! DOWN!” 

The Master ducks too, as not even a nanospan later, _TkhTkhTkhTkhTkhTkht!_

Disobedient little gobshites! Shooting at him _and_ arguing amongst themselves about stupid things he doesn’t understand. Nonetheless the second burst of _TkhTkhTkhTkhTkhTkht!_ takes him by surprise.

His shoulder-- How??-- 

Nevermind how-- he cries out in pain-- He’s lost the Doctor again-- Typical, always running away-- now the humans are running about like so many tafelshrews, but at least they’re not running _at him_ \-- 

And now he’s losing blood-- gotta get back… to his TARDIS… patch himself up… 

It’s not so much the physical pain… after all, he’s had so much worse… 

It’s the emptiness.

**[The Vortex, Outside of Space and Time]**

His ship, the only home not yet destroyed, isn’t even speaking to him anymore. He peels off layers of clothes (cursing the elaborate pre-victorian fashion) and leaves them in a heap. The zero room disinfects, stops the bloodflow, starts the bone knitting itself back together. But he’s on his own for fishing out bits of shrapnel and suturing and dressing the wounds. He makes a bit of a mess of it, but it doesn’t matter, not anymore. 

It shouldn't be difficult to trace the Doctor, just a bit of listening and waiting until he will inevitably feel their signature disruption of the timelines.

In the vortex there’s no such thing as deadlines, so the Master, now dressed more comfortably in O’s clothes, tries to rest. His shoulder throbs, so he chases painkillers with strong drink, but doesn’t manage to sleep. He paces round his console room that for years has masqueraded as a mad conspiracy theorist’s untidy shack, but stumbles against piles of books. He kicks at a box of files; it barely budges. He kicks it again, this time with all his frustration. The box explodes in a satisfying storm of paper, but all too soon the pages fall to the ground, just more clutter to slip on. He can’t lug everything to storage or even to the incinerator with only one working arm. 

He stalks over to a control panel and keys in what should be a code for a selfcleaning routine, but the TARDIS doesn’t cooperate. Nothing for it, then. Every sudden movement makes his shoulder hurt more, but working slowly with his feet and left arm, he manages to shove all the clutter to one corner, leaving himself access to the controls and more space for pacing. 

He finally flops down exhausted on a dilapidated sofa. All this effort, all this subterfuge, just to keep the Doctor closer. Another long con with MI6 (the number of spy films he’s seen, and not a one let on how devastatingly _boring_ actual human intelligence agents are). Disguises (well, that’s always fun)… Pretending to be a paranoid obsessive (what, like it’s hard?!) The texting (okay, he rather liked that part)… _Spacking_ bloody Australian Outback ( _doesn’t he ever get lonely?_ )… Eventually the Master drifts off into uneasy dreams. 

He’s awakened by pain. Feverish and disoriented, it takes him some time to piece together the events of the past few days, and when he has, he feels even worse. He lies there a while, in case it’s possible to ignore all this until it goes away, but the discomfort is too great. He's got chills, his clothes are all damp, heat radiates off his pulsing shoulder, the dressing needs changing… in short, the universe is against him and everything is irredeemably awful. 

The Master forces himself upright despite waves of nausea, staggers unsteadily to the kitchen, and starts a pot of tea brewing. He fights the urge to sit down (and possibly never get up again), instead making his way to the medbay.

He washes his hands meticulously both before and after stripping off sweat-soaked clothes. Finally, he sits down on a wheeled stool, lifts an edge of the dressing, and is overcome by disgust. Luckily he’s sat next to the washbasin. 

He bins the soiled gauze, rinses the sick out of his mouth, washes his hands again, and dabs halfheartedly at the wounds with a new sterile cleansing cloth from the supply cabinet. One fear struggles with another: He’s tempted to leave it be (cover the wound quickly, try not to think about it). But he could die like that (stupidly, preventably, much too early to waste a perfectly good regeneration). Self-preservation wins out. He grits his teeth against the smell and the pain; cleans the area properly this time, applies antiseptic salve and a clean dressing. He downs an advanced antibiotic from his neatly arranged medical storage. By the last time he washes his hands, he’s shivering uncontrollably despite the scalding water, and only then remembers that he’s standing (sitting and leaning, to be exact) in the cold medbay with next to no clothes on.

By the time he’s dressed in more of O’s soft jumpers and tracksuit bottoms, the tea in the kitchen has cooled to a drinkable temperature, and is strong enough to wake the dead. The Master, finding this exactly appropriate, stirs five packets of demerara sugar into a large mug. He’s still feeling really ropey, but the brew feels good going down, and he begins to at least entertain the possibility of his characteristic optimism returning. But first, sleep. Proper sleep in an actual bed, hopefully this time sans nightmares.

As his luck would have it, he dreams of the Doctor. And not the fun sort of dreams, either.


	2. (Doctor PoV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **boldface are actual lines recycled from the episode**   
>  _long portions in italics are thoughts_

**[la Tour Eiffel, Paris, 1943]**

Biting winds whip through the metal structure, rattling anything not bolted down, and competing with the noise of air-raid sirens. The Doctor's regretting being stuck here in a full-dress suit, but it's not like their usual outfit would’ve been much warmer. They find themself shouting in Gallifreyan, _but just for clarity. Definitely not out of nostalgia or anything of the sort._ **“It's cold up here! Worse than Jodrell Bank.”**

**“Did I ever apologise for that?”** The Master shivers, too, despite his thick shearling coat… with that hateful insignia on it.

**“No.”**

**“Good.”** _Don’t his attempts at being consistently rude seem a bit on the nose, a bit flat… or am I imagining things? Still not gonna dignify that with a response._

**“How's the shoulder?”** They’re trying, really trying, to be civil. It wasn’t _their_ idea to shoot him.

He winces, very convincingly. **“Painful.”** _He’s got his TARDIS. Surely he’s had time to heal? Has he done something stupid again?_

_No, don’t go all soft. Especially not now._ **“I don't like what you're wearing. Or the company you keep.”** _Be hard, be cruel even. It’s not like_ he’d _give_ me _any leeway._ **“How’ve you managed that? You're not exactly their Aryan archetype.”**

**“Perception filter**. Since when does it matter which convenient group of humans I make use of? I seem to remember you herding Hitler into a cupboard.”

“How’d you find out about that?!” Surely they haven’t told any of his past selves… Not that they can remember that well…

The Master only grins.

“Anyway, he’s a fixed point, you should know that. Kill him, they only find someone worse.”

“Fine, okay, whatever.” He waves away their point with his (left) gloved hand. “But… d’you really believe everyone’s equal?” _Intent on putting me on the back foot, isn’t he?_ “Your little human pets, surely you don’t think they’re… the same as us?”

“They’re BETTER than us.” _Well, most of them are. Not the lot he’s with._

“Right, that’s what _they_ say about their _dogs_ … The cleverer ones say it about their cats. You _know_ what I mean. Deep down, do you even think all Gallifreyans are equal?”

“Of course!”

“Time Lords, with all our education and _breeding_ … You really think we’re not worth any more than commoners?”

They try not to hesitate. “That’s… correct.”

“Do you even _know_ any Plebeians? What have you ever done to ensure their welfare? If they were, say, just as a hypothetical, all burnt to a crisp… Would you even be aware?”

Something prickles in the back of the Doctor’s conscience. They try to ignore it. **“When does all this stop for you? The games, the betrayals, the killing?”**

**“Why would it stop? I mean, how else would I get your attention? When did you last go home?”**

“Wait-wait-wait. Back up.”

“No? I’m _trying_ to talk to you about Gallifrey.”

“Can’t think about Gallifrey just now. It’s Earth you’re threatening, and I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of it.”

“Tired of Earth? About bloody time.”

“Tired of your cheek. And your mind-games, _Spy_ master.” They pronounce the nickname from the other day with all the derision it deserves.

“It’s _our_ game, _Theta_. It’s the only thing that matters. It’s--” He sounds surprisingly serious, and his voice even breaks. “It’s the only reason I’m still alive.”

It's such a good performance, the Doctor is almost speechless. Almost. “You wot?”

“Did I say that out loud? _Oh well. You got me._ ” The same phrase as when they’d first caught O in a lie on the plane, but with infinitely more weariness.

“Just what exactly are you trying to say?”

“What I said back at the weapons expo. I don’t think you understood.”

“Which part?”

“When I said I felt like I was **in the right place, doing what I was _made_ for.**”

“You like killing people. It’s not that deep.”

“They re-loomed me. As _their weapon_.”

“And? That’s what they _do_ , the TimeLords’ Council. That’s what Rassilon _does_.”

“And it does… feel good…”

“But? Afterwards you feel empty? Alone? Misunderstood?” the Doctor sneers. _As if I didn’t know this feeling too. He’s not special. Well… not in that respect._

“No-- Or yes, but… Not what I wanted to say.”

“Ha.”

“You asked if I was tired too. And… I really very much am. Not of Our Game, never tire of that. Makes life… intresting. But I'm sick to death of pretending it's anything else.” His amazingly large eyes… _are probably just watering from the cold wind._ “Playing at being good, only to get close to you… that’s one kind of farce. _Your_ kind. But all the extraneous stuff… **maximum carnage** and so on… that's just _another_ distraction. One that means…” he hesitates, gulps, then ends quietly, “they still win.”

“An impressive speech. You’ve got my full attention, now.”

The Master’s still wary: “Yeah, but for how long?”

The Doctor takes a deep breath. _At this point, why the hell not? I’ll find out soon enough if he’s for real._ “Long as you like… but it’s gonna cost ya.”

“Ah.”

“Just the human race. You said yourself, they aren’t worth much.”

“They are to the Kasaavin.”

“It’s up to you. You can keep your deal with them, or you can make a deal with me.”

“I’m listening.”

“Simple: you never hurt another Human again. Ever.”

“And…?”

“In exchange, we continue Our Game, on a smaller scale.”

“Like… what? Chess?” He’s almost laughing.

The Doctor laughs, too, this time without bitterness. “I was thinking maybe we start with scrabble, but I'm not ruling out the possibility of chess.”

The Master smiles fondly, like O used to smile at his friend over snapchat. “Trip in the box?”

“Of course. Only way I can be sure you're holding up your end of the bargain.”

“But no vault.”

“No vault.”

“Absolute freedom.”

“Except to hurt, endanger, or kill humans, yes.”

“Agreed.” The Master starts to offer them his right hand, then grimaces in pain at the arm movement.

“You alright?”

“I will be. Wait.” He removes one glove, stuffing it in his coat pocket, then offers the Doctor his bare left hand.

The Doctor takes it, half-surprised that his skin is every bit as cold as theirs. And then, full telepathic contact. It’s been too long, they’re out of practice, and the sheer amount of incoming data is overwhelming, especially as the Master’s mental shields are down. _Really fucking far down. What the hell is he thinking?!_

Well, in a quite literal sense they can read almost all of what he’s thinking. The thrill of meeting them again, a dark warm purple-red nostalgia, the dull aches and flashing jagged yellow of stabbing pain both mental and physical, the white-hot anger at the Council, the thin iridescent slivers of hope… _it’s all real. But what would make him desperate enough to open up like this?_

There’s just one cluttered corner of the Master’s mind that’s blurred out, but the Doctor can’t blame him. They’ve still got probably a full three-quarters of their own shielding up, and they can feel how relieved he is to be let into their headspace at all.

By mutual agreement, they prolong the handshake until they’ve both got used to their natural form of communication again, until some sense of long-lost trust is solidified.

The Doctor’s phone bingles, and they abruptly drop the Master’s hand.


	3. (Doctor PoV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, **boldface = episode quotes** , possibly slightly rearranged, and _whole sentences of italics = thoughts_.

The Doctor speaks quickly, before they lose their nerve, “ **Sent it to voicemail.** Only. Erm. Something I oughta tell you. This… this really seemed like a much better idea a couple of hours ago--”

 **“What have you done?!”** The Master’s voice rises, shrill and anxious.

“Speaking of betrayals. I may have… possibly… had you ratted out to the Jerries as a British double-agent. I was even gonna break your perception filter, so they’d see how not-Aryan you are.” _Why’d I say that?! There was no need to tell him the whole truth! Now what’s he gonna do?!_

Surprise them, apparently. “Weaponising human bigotry!” the Master claps his hands, wincing halfway into the sudden movement. “Harry Saxon would be proud,” he says, maintaining a smile with obvious effort.

The Doctor looks away, “I thought we were back at each other’s throats again, it was self-preservation.”

“Oh, believe me, I completely understand.” _You know what, he probably really does._ “Exactly what I would have done.” _Except… he hasn’t actually used it against me… yet? …that I look like a woman now._

The Doctor tries not to think about that. “Right, so… They should be coming up the steps any moment now. You’re gonna need to disappear. Maybe you could expand your perception filter instead? Be almost invisible?”

“Not sure it’s strong enough, when they’ll be actively looking for me, but I’ll have a go. What’ll you do?”

“See if I can confuse them, then we pop in the lift when they're not looking?”

The Master takes off the hat and coat of his disguise (the Doctor fights the impulse to help him when he struggles with the arms). He drapes his coat over one of those lookout binoculars mounted at the furthest side from the stairs and the lift, and places the hat on top. In the dark, it just might be confused for a person leaning on the railing.

Heavy steps are approaching from below.

The Master is becoming hard to look at. _No, not like that… in fact, rather the opposite._ But when you look at him, he’s hard to see. The brain wants to skip over the part of reality where he is. Perception filter must be working pretty well.

The soldiers reach the viewing platform and shout questions at the Doctor, who shrugs and points vaguely round the corner.

The Doctor and the Master slip into the lift and descend, at first keeping a nervous silence.

They sneak a cheeky smile at him. "Chin up, looks like we're getting out of this!"

He starts to smile back at them but then suddenly his eyes go big, he 'facepalms' and makes a muffled sound into his hand.

“What's wrong?”

“ _Othering Otherfucker_ , I’ve bollocksed it.”

“What? Tell me. Promise I won't be cross.”

“The TCE. It’s still in my coat-pocket,” he points upwards. “If the Bosche figure out how to replicate it, or even just how to use it, our deal will be off before it’s even started. Can you imagine how many more of your precious humans they’ll manage to do away with, and how much more efficiently, if they can just shrink ‘em?”

It’s hard not to be horrified; also, he’s right. “You didn't have to tell me that. Erm. Thank you.”

“Wouldn't be sporting not to. Anyway, you'd have sussed it out sooner or later.”

“Any chance you’ve got a remote detonator in that thing?”

“No, but that’s a brilliant idea for version 3.0!”

“What’ll you do now?”

“Go up and get it back, of course.”

As they near the second level, the Doctor is pensive.

The Master breaks the silence: “You go on ahead. Meet you at my TARDIS? I assume you've already found it.”

“My agents have. I mean… my new friends.” They reach the platform and the Doctor gets out. “See you in a bit.”

“Yeah. Shouldn't be long.” He hesitates, then tries for comic relief: “Don’t do anything _I_ would do.”

The Doctor reprimands, voice low and serious: “Be _careful_.”

“You too.” The Master looks uneasily at them. “Um. About our bargain…?”

“Oh, _now_ you’re a rules-follower?!” they hiss. “Self-defence against Nazis doesn’t fucking count.”

As the central lift takes the Master back up, the Doctor heads for one of the others that go between the 2nd platform and the ground level.

His face as the lift doors closed again didn’t look nearly as happy about the prospect as they'd expected. Not happy at all, in fact. _Well, it’s natural to be nervous, innit. Going back up there unarmed… When has that ever stopped him, though? He’ll manage._

* * *

**[Paris street]**

~~~~**“Okay, you two, my best secret agents, time to go lock-picking.** I’ve had an idea on the way here.”

**[Master’s TARDIS]**

Noor and Ada eye the peculiar furnishings. The rustic worktables, worn books, and so on, wouldn’t look out of place in the countryside of either of their eras, but the other half of the equipment might as well be from the Moon. Ada speaks first: **“Why is this house so important?”**

 **“This is not a house,”** the Doctor is being dramatic again. **“It's a machine that travels in Space and Time. This is my way back to finding my friends and saving humanity.”**

* * *

**[Paris apartment]**

“ **This is where I leave you, Noor Inayat Khan, codename Madeleine.”**

“ **Answer me one question. The fascists, do they win?** ”

The Doctor starts to answer. They can feel one of their usual brilliantly worded hope-inducing speeches building itself right on the tip of their tongue. Then they remember the Master's uncomfortable questions, they remember various incidents that Yaz and Ryan have mentioned, and they swallow that impulse back down.

“Look, here's the thing,” they say, cautiously, “The fascists do lose the war. They lose in Spain, as well, though it takes decades longer.”

“But…?” Noor waits.

“Well, they keep popping up again, don’t they? Like daleks.”

Noor gives them a strange look, like they're an alien or something.

“Like, erm… Nevermind. What I mean is, _you_ know what people are like. In your job, I reckon you’ve seen both the best and the worst of humanity.”

“I have.”

“We’ve got that in common. So you understand what they-- what we-- what _all people_ are capable of. Throughout history, throughout the universe, fascism surfaces again from time to time. We’ve always got to be on the lookout for these… I suppose you could say _dehumanizing_? ideas. In politics, in the media… inside ourselves, even. And there are always people like you, who are prepared to do anything to return their societies to justice.”

“Thank you, Doctor, for your honesty…”

“I'll be going now. But first, I've got to remove your memories of all the things you shouldn't have seen.”

“But why?”

“Too much intel about the future. It would interfere with the work.”

Noor considers briefly. _Of course, she must be used to making difficult decisions under pressure._ She nods, her face stoic. “You may censor my memories, now.”

They press their fingers to her temple and, as she loses consciousness, they let her down gently onto her bed.

“Bon courage.”

* * *

**[Babbage's house]**

~~~~**“I'm ever so sorry, Ada.”**

**“Doctor, what are you doing?”**

**“Wiping the things you shouldn't have knowledge of. Including me.”**

**“But I want that knowledge. Don't take it away. Please.”**

**“Oh Ada, you don't need a preview. You'll figure it out before anyone. The first to see the potential in things like that, to work out what could be. What they can really do. Computers start with you.”**

“And if I decline? If I choose to keep all the things I've learned?”

“Erasing your memory protects your legacy. You don’t invent modern computing with help from time travellers, or even men. You invent it _yourself_. Out of your own brilliance.”

“A moment, if you please.” Ada paces the study, ends up looking out the window at the stars. “Doctor? I consent.”

“ **Sweet dreams, Ada Lovelace.** ”


	4. (Master PoV)

On the way back up in the lift, the Master can’t concentrate. His mind thrills with his new circumstances. _A universe of possibilities, so close, so close…_

He checks his trouser pockets. He hadn’t thought to bring much, only a lighter and a length of thin strong rope, just in case.

At the top observation deck, he has a stroke of luck. Only one soldier is guarding the lift, and when he sees the apparently empty cabin, he doesn’t investigate.

The Master slips out. The soldiers, who have found his coat and gone through the pockets, are investigating the TCE. Since it looks a bit like a grenade, they’re being cautious.

There are several giant red Nazi flags hanging from the tower. As a simple diversion, the Master moves quietly to the one furthest from the lift and sets it on fire. _The Doctor would like that_. He sort of hopes they see it.

Now he’s back to watching the troops trying out his TCE. He hopes they will test it on each other, but no such luck. _Any moment now..._

Finally, the soldiers on that side of the platform notice the fire! In the general commotion, the Otherfucker holding the TCE accidentally lobs it over the railing!

The Master takes mental note of which side that was, and hightails it to the lift. _This is… sorta fun after all._

When he reaches the second platform, however, he finds more soldiers blocking every lift and stairway. He’s going to have to climb on the outside.

Abseiling down the bottom half of the Eiffel Tower without an audience isn’t exactly the Master’s idea of a great time, but with two good arms it’d be a doddle. If only he hadn’t been so impulsive, if only he’d bided his time in the Vortex until his shoulder had healed properly. _But then, who knows, everything might have turned out differently…_

_Hope is the most dangerous emotion,_ he berates himself. By all rights, he should hate it. _Hope makes you foolish, it’ll trip you up. But Othering Omega, it’s a helluva drug._

_The worst part is getting over the railing._ The rope should really be anchored a little ways below the viewing platform, so that nothing will be noticeable from above, but he’s not in a position to be choosy just now. His right arm is useless for anything requiring force, so he ends up tying a complicated knot with his left hand and his teeth, and hoping for the best. With the rope wrapped around his torso, he’ll have some insurance in case he loses his footing. The metal structure is burning cold when he rests on the girders, and the cord cuts into his limbs when he uses it to let himself down safely to the next foothold. He does, in fact, slip a few times ( _spacking dress shoes!_ ) and more than once bashes his bad shoulder on a metal edge.

In another stroke of luck, however, he gets most of the way down before feels the rope suddenly slacken. It must have torn through or somehow unknotted itself at the top. He tries to catch hold of one of the struts with his good hand, but the lengths of cord tumbling past unbalance him, and he ends up jumping the last couple of metres, determined to land on his feet like a cat.

He feels something pop in his right ankle, and has to bite his hand to keep from crying out at the sudden throbbing pain. A few soldiers are now patrolling under this side of the tower, so he’s taking no chances. The hardest thing is getting up without depending on his right arm or his right leg. He tightens his boot laces, despite the stabbing ankle joint, and finds he can still put weight on that side. _Must not be that bad then._

He scans the paved areas but in the uneven light it takes a while to find his device. It’s mostly smashed from the initial impact, but he pockets the main chunk of it and as many fragments as he can find. He keeps the perception filter going until he’s out of sight of the tower, limping his way towards where he left his TARDIS.

Getting near, he senses something wrong; he pushes himself to hurry the last hundred metres, only to find the square now empty.

His heartsbeats pound in his neck, up the back of his head, behind his ears… loud enough to drown out the air-raid sirens and all the muffled noises of a city still trying to maintain its identity despite occupation. _DOCTOOOORR! They've double-crossed me. They've taken my TARDIS and abandoned me here._ His mind pulses with vague, terrifying images of possible fates that await him. And to think he was only joking, there was no shadow of suspicion left when he told them not to pull any more of his old tricks.

The Master, defeated, crumples to the pavement in the middle of the square. _I actually really believed them. How could I have been so STUPID?!_ That last word echoes over and over in his head, only it’s more violent in Gallifreyan, a word for… almost an unperson. He balls up his fists and bashes himself in the face, but he’s so chilled through that he hardly feels the pain in his shoulder, nose, or eyes. Even his ankle has gone numb.

The exhaustion he’s been trying to ignore all night hits him while he’s down. _It’s not fair… I trusted them, I trusted them completely…_ His closed eyes sting with tears. He feels desperately unwell; it’s all he can do to listen for footsteps and try to turn the perception filter up if anyone comes near.

He’s this close to losing consciousness when he hears an impossible sound. He forces his eyes open as the Doctor’s TARDIS materializes around him. _Oh good, a nice warm dream about escaping…_

But it’s real. It’s really real. The Doctor stands over him, backlit by amber lights that turn their hair all glowy and golden. “Sorry I’m late-- borrowed your TARDIS; it’s in the hold. Your zero room or mine?”

“You… could’ve texted,” says the Master weakly.


	5. (Master PoV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as usual, **boldface lines are recycled from tv**  
>  and _whole phrases in italics are thoughts_

**[The Master’s TARDIS]**

He wakes up confused, wearing only pants and a vest… but also warm, weightless, and almost comfortable.

The Master must've chosen his own Zero Room, for familiarity's sake. Chances are his TARDIS has got better medtech than the Doctor's anyway.

He sits up (the antigravity version is more like pulling oneself into a ball and then sticking one’s legs out one at a time). At least he can move all his limbs. His right shoulder seems better, though he rubs it and feels thick, tight patches of scar tissue. But his right ankle is swollen about twice the size of his left and still somewhat painful despite the heavy anaesthetic effect of the telepathic atmosphere. The zero room has started the healing process but informs him, by scans projected overhead, which of the several possible bones are broken.

“You're gonna want to stay off that.”

“Doctor! Hi!” The Master resists the urge to curl up again. He crosses his ankles (managing not to wince at the stabbing sensation from even the slightest pressure) and laces his fingers behind his head, as if relaxing on a swimming-pool float.

The Doctor strides into view, their head at about the same level as the Master’s, somehow managing to look down at him even from slightly below. They walk around just as in any other room, the selective antigrav only applying to the current patient. “I bunged that uniform in a black hole.”

“I’ve got better clothes of my own.”

“Good.”

There’s a brief but awkward silence.

“You empty the pockets first?”

“Nope.”

“Did you even look?”

“I did.”

An internal sigh of relief: at least his little adventure wasn’t in vain. “Well, there’s my TCE prototype gone.”

The Doctor shrugs, raises their eyebrows, and half-smiles.

 _Oh… so that's how it is._ “The game’s afoot, I take it?”

The Doctor, already heading towards the door again, looks very pointedly at his injury. “I guess you _could_ say that.”

* * *

The Master gets the zero room to measure the ankle and 3D print him a bespoke cast, complete with a separate layer of gel mesh padding. It’ll fit perfectly, but it’ll take a while to print, so what now? Good job he added a telekinetic circuit to one of his desk chairs last year. Originally meant to be used for pranks, it’s a little something he thought up in the long quiet boredom of the Outback. But now he can summon that one chair to the Zero Room with just a thought, and use it to get around once he leaves the weightless environment.

After a quick detour past the medical supply freezer, the Master scoots to his bedroom and wraps himself in blankets and his ankle in ice packs, using extra pillows to keep it elevated. He must still need more rest, because the continued zigzagging of the printer from several rooms away puts him right to sleep.

He wakes up somewhat less exhausted, and with a much-less-swollen ankle. He dresses carefully, hoping to make a good first impression. _Next impression. Last impression. Whatever. Can’t believe they saw me in my smalls. This them and this me, anyway_. Elegant wide trousers will let him move freely and make the walker brace less apparent. A smart jumper is softer, easier to put on, and less constricting than a suit. _And purple is such an underrated villain colour._ He can’t resist adding a waistcoat in a subdued tartan, for style… and extra pockets. Even with the cast fastened, he can’t really put weight on his right foot yet, so he chooses an understated but stylish cane from the appropriate section of his wardrobe storage.

Now that he’s costumed himself appropriately, he feels ready to face people, or at least the Doctor.

Speaking of whom... “Ey up!”

“You can't just swan around in my TARDIS! I might've been indecent.” He tries, successfully, to give the last words a flirtatious edge.

“Nice to see you, too! Aubergine still suits you, by the way.”

“And you're... back on your rainbows.”

“It's comfortable. While you were sleeping, I've put paid to the Kasaavins’ plot. Time to pick up the ‘fam’.”

He very pointedly doesn't ask the Doctor just how they got rid of the greedy aliens, and if they're dying to tell him, they don't show it. More importantly, “What will you tell the humans about us? Our Arrangement, I mean.”

“I think... that should be on a need-to-know basis, Don't you?”

_Oh, Doctor. I can't believe you're giving me this little gift... twice._

* * *

**[Hangar]**

The Master watches the little reunion on Console Room monitors. The welcome apparently isn’t quite what the Doctor expected.

The humans are all sort of glaring at them, and the Master _almost_ feels sympathy.

 **“What?”** _They really don’t get it, do they? How people must see them…_

Good old Yasmin is the first to speak up: **“You have a lot of explaining to do.”**

**“Like what?”**

Now it’s Graham’s turn: **“Like who** _is_ this Master bloke **? And are we being replaced?”**

But then Ryan gives the Doctor an easy out, asking how they arranged the little scavenger hunt in the aeroplane, and they go off track explaining that for a bit.

“I’ll drop everyone off back in Sheffield?” the Doctor finally says. “Meet up again next weekend?”

“Wow. Okay…” It hasn’t escaped Yaz that none of the hard questions have been answered.

“Right…” says Graham.

Ryan just shrugs.

The Master had every intention of standing mysteriously in a corner of the Console Room during the companions’ ride home, but he suddenly thinks better of it and slips out the back as the group approaches the TARDIS. Maybe he’ll listen in, not least to enjoy the Doctor’s discomfort at being stuck in a room with people they aren’t ready to talk to.

Not much actual conversation reaches the back corridor, though, and soon tense goodbyes are being said.

* * *

When the front door has finally closed and the silence is even more complete, the Master peeks out and rejoins the Doctor. He makes himself right at home, sitting on one of the platforms with his foot up on another.

The Doctor finishes bringing the TARDIS into the vortex, and turns to face him. “Where’d _you_ get to? Hope you haven’t been messing about.”

“As if I could find anything, even if I wanted to. Bit of a tip back there.”

“Oi, you’re one to talk! I’ve seen your place, remember.”

“That was undercover work. I don’t actually _live_ like that.”

“My TARDIS, my rules.”

“Just saying. If I re-break my leg, it’s your fault.”

“Ugh, this is daft! D’you realise we’re fighting over nothing?”

“I’m dying for a cuppa, now you mention it.” The Master does his best charming smile, with full eyebrow effects.

“I _didn’t_ mention it. But, you know what, why not?!” The Doctor draws two paper cups full from a tea dispenser and motions at another machine. “You’ll like this little gadget. Biscuit?”

“Ooh. Such hospitality!”

“Don’t get sarky, or she won’t give you any more. Very protective, the old girl.” They pat the biscuit dispenser fondly, and it promptly spits out several extras.

Soon they’re both munching on custard creams and sipping at very hot (and actually decent) tea.

“Mine wasn’t speaking to me for yonks. Wouldn’t even change form. Imagine parking that bloody great homestead.”

“She was fine with me. Turned into a neat little column, soon as I asked nicely.”

“You think I’m not capable. I can be very nice… when I want to.”

“Prove it. Be nice to me for a week.” _Bless… they're trying to bait-and-switch._

 _We had one condition and one only. And anyway,_ “I was nice to you for years!”

“That wasn’t you! That was O.”

“O doesn’t exist.”

“I wish he did.”

“Some days, so do I.” _This current face is capable of such delicious pathos._

“D’you mean that?!” _Oooh… they want to believe…_

“Nah, just taking the piss. Gotcha!”

The Doctor gives him an exasperated shove, which would be fine _…_ except they’re sitting to his right so they hit his bad shoulder and jostle his broken ankle.

This time he doesn’t manage to hide his reaction and lets out a startled growl of pain.

“Bloody hell, I’m sorry. I forgot.” _Actual contrition. Interesting._

“Whatever. So, the humans are cross with you. You’ve broken some of their little social rules.”

“They just don’t understand. The split-second decisions you make… Some things are bigger than…”

“Yeah.”

They both sit in thought for a while, staring into the changing colours of the TARDIS walls.

To the Master’s surprise, the Doctor eventually asks, “how about you? Anything on _your_ mind?”

Even more to his surprise, he decides to answer: “Your newest friend, back in Paris. Wasn’t that Noor Inayat Khan?”

The Doctor stares at him, their expressive mouth slightly agape.

“What? You’re not the only one who knows a bit of Earth history. She’ll end up shot by the Nazis. Shouldn’t you go back and save her, or something?”

“We can’t. Fixed point.”

“But you _liked_ her.”

“I do, but we can’t. She’s too important.”

“There’s no council left. Who would know?”

“We’ve been through this. Well, _I_ have. Base on Mars, long story… Seem to remember _you_ were hiding out at the end of the universe at the time.”

The Master grumbles something he hopes is unintelligible.

“WAIT. Back up. What d’you mean there's no council left?”

“Oh, yeah. There's something I haven't told you…”

“ **What have you done?!”**

 **“I took a trip home, to Gallifrey, hiding in its little bubble universe.** Only something happened, maybe on the way in? … Anyway, I lost a couple days and when I came to… **Not sure how to describe what I found. Someone had destroyed it. Our home, razed to the ground. Everyone killed. Everything burned.”**

**“You're lying.”**

**“You should really take a look.** Maybe we can figure it out… together. **”**


	6. (Doctor PoV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( **lines recycled from ep**  
>  _thoughts_ )

They look out together over the ruins of Gallifrey. The once-red grass and silvery trees are greyish and lifeless, stifled under layers of ash and dust. The only colour is the yellow sky, but it’s a sickly 1970s appliances mustard, not a 24karat golden glow. The spherical barrier of the Citadel is shattered and one can see the once-grand skyscrapers within in various states of dereliction. It’s hard to tell how recent the destruction is. The Doctor takes in a big gulp, tasting and smelling the air, but it’s still thick with residue and they cough, almost to the point of retching.

The Master puts a hand on their shoulder. “Seen enough, love? Believe me now? Let’s go back inside.”

The Doctor waves him away, clears their throat several times, and finally manages, “…something wrong.”

“Yes… That’s… that’s what I brought you here to see.”

“No, I mean-- No… people. No bodies.”

“Pity.”

“Spack off. Where've they gone?”

“What d’you care? You hate the rest of our species as much as I do.”

“I do not _hate_ them. I try not to hate anyone.” _No use staying any longer_ ; they return to the TARDIS, reflexively holding the door open for the Master.

“Even me?” _Those eyes. That face was wasted on O, honestly. It always deserved good old Koschei’s sense of melodrama._

 _But enough nostalgia; gotta stay alert._ “I don’t hate you. Never have. I’m angry with you, that’s different.”

“But you’re _always_ angry with me.”

“Because you’re _always_ doing horrible things.” _Mock his wheedling voice, so he can’t get to you._

“So are you, but I'm only cross when you’re doing horrible things _to me_. And sometimes not even then.”

The Doctor is fighting valiantly not to smile. It’s not working.

“C'mon, Theta, what’s a few planets between friends?”

“I won’t dignify that with a reply.”

“Anyway, Gallifrey. You may not wish ‘em dead, but do you ever miss ‘em?” he doesn’t even wait for an answer, not that there is one. “Didn’t think so.”

There’s a sudden crunching, grinding sound, and the TARDIS door grudgingly allows something to pass through it. A hypercube comes whizzing into the console room, and lands at their feet. The Doctor scoops it up and plugs it into the hologram station.

A lifesize image of the Master appears. The same regeneration as now, but dressed differently than they’ve seen him before, in a tartan suit and purple coat.

The Doctor glances at the real Master. He looks every bit as surprised as they are, but that could be down to his acting skills.

“This message is **geo-activated. If you're seeing this, you've been to Gallifrey. When I said _someone_ did that, obviously I meant _I_ did. I had to make them pay for what I discovered. They lied to us, the founding fathers of Gallifrey. Everything we were told was a lie. We are not who we think, you or I. The whole existence of our species built on the lie of the Timeless Child.”**

As the phrase echoes round the console room, the Doctor begins to feel very odd. The actual Master has had to sit down and is grasping his head. Indistinct images flash through the Doctor’s mind, at once old and fresh, forgotten and ever-present. _And…_ there’s _the pain, like the other shoe dropping. It should all make sense, but it doesn’t… something’s just out of reach._

The hologram Master continues: “ **Do you see it? It's buried deep in all our memories. In our identity. I'd tell you more, but…”** suddenly his demeanor changes, and he snarls: **“but why would I make it easy for you? It wasn't for me.”** The transmission ends, abruptly.

The Master is the first to speak: “Othering Omega…” He’s managing to sound actually shocked, but… there’s no way that’s real.

“What the _actual fuck_ are you playing at, Koschei?!”

“Noth-- I-- I wasn’t expecting _that_.” He gestures at the space where the hologram was.

“You’re telling me you don’t remember sending this?”

“I don’t remember… anything. From when my TARDIS was about to materialise on Gallifrey to when I woke up and saw…” He gestures towards the monitors that show the barren landscape outdoors.

“I don’t believe you.”

“No, I didn’t expect you would.” His voice is flat, emotionless in the way that means emotions are being suppressed.

 _Be hard. Don’t let him get to you._ “I think you’d better stay out of my way for a while.”

“How long?”

“I’ll let you know.”

The Master stands up, with some difficulty. _Don’t get soft. Don’t let him make you feel._ On his way to the corridor he suddenly turns back: “Doctor--”

 _Be sharp, hard, cruel._ “WHAT?!”

“Nevermind.”


	7. (Master PoV)

The Master limps back to his TARDIS, slams and deadlocks the door, and collapses on O’s hideous sofa. _This furniture is shite… Really got to replace it._ He curses Gallifrey for all that their elders have done to them, then himself for insisting that the Doctor go look, then the Doctor for not believing him about the amnesia, then himself for _having_ amnesia, and then Gallifrey again.

 _Did I do that? Did I destroy Gallifrey? I must’ve done. Must’ve been AMAZING. So why can’t I remember it? The Doctor managed_ not _to destroy Gallifrey and convince themself they_ had _. But actually doing it? Not the sort of thing_ I _would try to forget, that’s where we’re different. Especially not considering… that Other Thing. No pun intended. I hope. Didn’t think I could get angrier at the Founders and the Council than I already was, but this… Fuck, I wish the Doctor were speaking to me. We shouldn’t have to be alone with this new… information, if you can call it that. Neither of us should have to be alone with it._

He forces himself up, walks back over and unlocks the TARDIS door, testing to make sure it will open from the outside even without his biometrics.

He tries pacing, but his ankle is becoming too painful. Finally, he drags himself to his bedroom, leaning heavily on his cane. _Maybe hiding out is a good idea after all. I’ll rest up until the Doctor’s ready to see me again. Maybe by then I’ll be stronger. Ready to… to WHAT, though? What am I even aiming for, now?_

The Master’s dreams are, as usual, troubled, but not in a way that's any use for restoring memories.

* * *

The Doctor doesn't wait a week. After maybe a day, they pop straight over to next weekend and pick up their humans.

It also took about a day for the Master to get bored of hiding, tired of waiting for the Doctor to speak to him. So he skulks around, observing, keeping just out of their sight. 

The Doctor has made the mistake of telling the companions they’ll answer some questions. _This oughta be good._

 _Graham must be the designated adult._ He gets right to it: “ **Who are you, Doc? I mean, really.”**

The Doctor gives their little prepared speech, the one they always use to impress people. When they first told O who they were, the Master had the hardest time not breaking character. But there’s no melodrama now. The Doctor’s voice is dull, even near the end. “ **I was born on a planet called Gallifrey in the constellation of Kasterborous. I'm a Time Lord. I can regenerate my body. I stole this Tardis and I ran away. I've been travelling ever since. The Master was one of my oldest friends. We went very different ways** for a very long time… but we're giving it another go. **Questions?”**

 **“Loads,”** says Graham.

Ryan, _bless him_ : “Are you and him-- you know-- _buffing_?”

The Doctor gives him a quizzical look. “Are we bluffing? No, we really mean to try--”

 _For my money, Yasmin’s the real candidate for resident adult._ “Ryan! Seriously?! Doctor, **can we visit your home?”** _Slightly unfortunate choice of question there…_

The Doctor’s face becomes a closed door so fast you could almost hear the click of the lock. **“Another time.”**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so with this mini-chapter i've exhausted the bits of spyfall that i wanted to work around. next, of course, will try to work with some of "fugitive of the judoon" ... but i figure everyone and their cousin will have already seen and/or been spoilered on that by now.
> 
> i don't have any grand theories about *anything* though... so i'm gonna be tiptoeing around canon trying to leave things open to (being inspired by / fixing) whatever happens in the rest of the season.


	8. (Yaz PoV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whenever i talk about time wars, my 'understanding' of the concept is influenced heavily by https://archiveofourown.org/works/471497 ( **Time v.3.0** by Teyke), although i never do it justice (either the fic or the idea, tbh)

Yaz is awake early, as usual, partly because she likes it and partly because it’s a chance to catch the Doctor alone. She tries to make conversation over buttered toast, but the Doctor is sulking, no other way to describe it… and no convincing them out of it.

PC Yasmin Kahn is very good at de-escalating other people’s situations, but when the Doctor won’t open up, Yaz takes it personal, and it drives her mental. Makes her want to poke and prod until something explodes. _Sorta like what the Doctor seems to be doing in the workspace underneath the TARDIS controls._ After the third alarming noise, Yaz stops asking the Doctor if they’re okay, only to be answered by not exactly reassuring grunts and mumbled Gallifreyan swears. Instead, she takes a walk down a random corridor, trusting the TARDIS won’t get her lost. She just wants the Doctor to tell her the truth. She just wants the Doctor to make everything clear. She just wants the Doctor to fix everything. She just wants the Doctor… _Ohhhh._

_Yeah that's probably it. Of all the people to fall for… Like, the Doctor being (looking like?) a woman doesn't even make the list of my problems. Do aliens even… can they… is that even how the force works?! And then there's the age difference. Last night they told Ryan they’re thousands of years old. And they seemed to mean it. They said a lot of mad things yesterday, though. Will I ever understand their life? Can I even_ trust _them?_

* * *

“Yaz! Hiiiiii!” A voice comes out of a dark corner, followed immediately by a waved hand and a pretty good attempt at a friendly face.

_Startled me. It’s_ himself _. The ex-whatever._ “Oh.”

“Not O, anymore.”

“Har-bloody-har.”

“You're… not scared of me.” The Master comes entirely out of the shadows, looking a bit worse for wear than when last they met. Although it’s well-camouflaged, she notices he’s got one foot in a walker cast. He also uses a cane, and not just for show. She wonders if it’s one of those fancy antique ones with a sword in. But at least she could probably outrun him, if necessary.

“No. I want answers, and the Doctor isn't… the Doctor's busy.”

“Busy having a very private mope? Busy brooding and shutting you out?”

“Something like that.”

“What's new?”

“You’ve missed Nikola Tesla, for one.”

“No big loss. I've _been_ that unappreciated genius trying to invent a future in a terrifying dystopia where half the people are out to eat you alive. At least twice. It gets old.”

“Terrifying dystopia? I wouldn’t go that far…”

“New York City at the beginning of the Electric Age… Nice to visit, but would you want to live there?”

“Okay, fair.”

“So, what else have I missed?”

“Well, yesterday? It was-- it was a LOT. Honestly, I think the Doctor's having some kind of crisis.”

“And you’re trusting me with this confidence, why?”

“Well, I’m worried about ‘em.”

“And?”

“And you’re the only…” _The only_ what, _though? There’s too much we don’t know about these people. Either of them,_ any _of them._

And now _this_ one, this dangerous madman who just a few weeks ago was just casually ready to murder Yaz and her friends and everyone on her planet, is standing here, staring at the wall textures, obviously lost in memories that she can’t see and that only the Doctor could imagine. Then he turns and he gives her this really intense look, and she’s like 95% sure he’s not acting… For a moment there, he could be someone from her community, one of her older cousins, someone her dad knows. _Well, it’s almost like he’s a regular person, innit. The kind that worries about their friends. Someone not that different from me._

Yaz shakes her head, impatient with her own doubts.

“Tell me.” His voice is infinitely calm and infinitely sad, and it’s like he’s seen into her head.

“I just thought… maybe the Doctor needs you. Another TimeLord that can understand them. That’s all.”

“ _Is_ that all, though?”

“What happened to them yesterday-- It’s-- it’s not my story to tell. I didn’t even understand it.”

“Tell me, anyway.” But he's not just repeating the words. It’s like she can feel him trying to hypnotise her. Or mind-control her, to be exact. Making her want to tell him things. But maybe… maybe it could be tit for tat.

“ _You_ tell _me_ summat first. I care about the Doctor, I want to be there for them. What do I _need_ to know?”

“You’re… Oh, this is _good_. You’re in _love_ with them.” It’s almost a taunt, like when a classmate finds out your crush. But there’s a little shred of something else there… And based on what both TimeLords have carefully avoided saying, she reckons he knows exactly how she feels. If anything, that makes this guy even more relatable. _Unfortunately._

Yaz takes a risk: “I meant, tell me something I _don’t_ know, you absolute walnut.”

Instead of anger, his eyes light up with glad surprise. “I like _you_. You're _fun_.”

“Back on topic.”

“Oh, where to start, where to start? A long long time ago in a galaxy far far away, two children met at school and grew up together. They weren't the Doctor or the Master yet. That would come later. These two were always a bit different from all the others, and the others could tell. The other children were merciless. One of the pair killed the most violent bully, but they worked together to destroy the evidence.”

“Bloody hell.”

“Mmhmm… I notice you didn't ask me which was which.”

“I didn't ask you anything yet.”

“Try me.”

“Was it in self defence?”

“What if it weren't? You gonna report us to the authorities, PC Kahn? They're long gone. Even our planet is destroyed.”

“Yeah, the Doctor said… that was you?”

“ _This_ time, yes, it was me.”

“This time?”

“Most of the other times, it was the Doctor who condemned Gallifrey to annihilation.”

Yaz considers this. True or not, the Doctor she knows is definitely _capable_ of wiping out a civilisation, even their own.

“Why?”

“Them, or me?”

“Either-- Both.”

“Sometimes it was to end the Time War. Of course, the nature of a Time War… Well, history doesn't happen once.”

“What do you mean?”

“Things are done, undone, redone with different results; events happen, unhappen, rehappen… ad nauseum. Just witnessing it is enough to drive you mad.”

“Surely there's another way to stop it?”

“Infinite ways… none of them effective. You can even undo it all, but then it’s just a matter of, well, time… until they start again.”

“Who was involved in the Time Wars?”

“Usually whichever races-- whichever species were the most Time-Sensitive, in any given chronology.”

“But always the… Gallifreyans?”

“Yes, they’re-- _we’re_ \-- we _were_ … generally the… what would be an appropriate human equivalent? Let’s say, universal gatekeepers of Time.”

“And _your_ motive?”

He switches gears very deliberately, tries to make his voice low and threatening: “Revenge.” _Weird how he explains his own reasoning less thoroughly than the Doctor’s… you’d expect sort of the opposite…_

But Yaz has had another idea, she just has to figure out how to phrase it. “So, like… could a time war… make it so that there were multiple versions of a person… of a TimeLord… that they didn't know about?”

“Yes… but lots of things could do that. Depends if they’re past, future, or parallel. Selective memory deletion could conceal a _past_ self, for example.”

“A mind-wipe?”

“Yes, but _selective_. We can edit with surgical precision, with a little time and concentration. Wanna see?” He raises his hand towards her temple, but it’s not quite a threat. _A test?_

She bats him away. “Hah. No thanks!”

“Pity. I could’ve erased your little trip to the Kasaavins’ dimension and that bit in the aeroplane, and we could’ve been friends.”

On impulse, she says, “Stop hurting people, and we still could.”

“You and the Doctor, you keep trying to make bargains!” _Ohhh, is that how he’s here? What were the Doctor’s conditions, then?_

“Is that a No?”

“I’ll think about it. Why did you ask that, earlier? About the alternate selves. Oddly specific question, for a human.” _Ah fuck._

She carries on anyway, “Just a hypothetical.”

“Asking for a friend?” _Good one. I’d laugh, but…_

“Really. Just curious.” Her best poker face.

“Okay, Yaz. Well, I must be off, back to my own TARDIS. Things to read, people to avoid. Tell the Doctor--”

“Hmm?”

“Nah, no message. They’ll come find me when they’re good and ready.”

It seems to Yaz that the Master leaves with a certain spring in his step, despite the limp.

_He’s got what he wanted, but have I? Well, at least I know a little more than before._


	9. (!Doctor! PoV)

That cheeky little apparition, the ghost of Doctor future, reluctantly takes their leave, and the real Doctor is finally alone in their TARDIS, alone with their thoughts. They flip a lever to dematerialise into the vortex, then lean heavily on the edge of the console. _Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. It’s okay to slow down, now. There’s time to think._

 _Surely there’s some rational way to explain this Blinovitch-infringement. I wouldn’t go so far as to call it an abomination like Gat did, but… these things don’t just happen. In fact, these things_ just don’t _happen. What in Omega’s ovipositor is going on?_

The Doctor makes a mental list of what they remember. Even after a couple of earth-decades dormant, they’re still young and strong. They tick off their past selves, then their current life, and the CIA. _Great Rassilon’s balls, that used to be a calling that would impress people, fill them with the dream of Gallifreyan greatness. But now, the Celestial Intervention Agency has become a vocation anyone would dread. The terms of the job, the things you’re asked to do-- well, “asked” is a misnomer when you can’t refuse… in short, not what you’d call a proper life of one’s own, not in the least._

But they’re free now, at least for the Time Being. The Doctor sees what they did there, but their TARDIS doesn’t enjoy puns, so there’s no-one to tell it to.

The one that went by ‘Lee Clayton’ is gone. Gat is gone, as well. That’s something, anyway. To think they’d once hoped that Gat and they could be friends. Before she got power-drunk, before she grew cruel. But Lee… A faithful companion to the end.

The Doctor shakes themself. No time for sentimentality. Must make sure they’re really safe, really free. They stride about, activating a plethora of instruments, initiating a variety of different scans, as well as the requisite masking technology, so that the searching itself won’t be traced.

When everything is running smoothly, the Doctor finally sits down, for just a moment, in the lone pilot’s chair. Not fully accepting that a return to consciousness takes a lot out of a person, they have no intention of actually resting.

They’re rudely awakened by the incessant clanging of the cloister bells.

* * *

CCTV shows an all-too-familiar fluted column that definitely didn’t use to be located in the 3rd auxiliary parking bay. The Doctor grabs the first tool to hand, and runs, as always, _towards_ trouble. Their shock is complete, however, when they reach the sealed doorway and hear, not any sort of insistence, but a polite knocking from the other side.

“Koschei, this had better not be your usual sort of trick.”

“What could I say to convince you it isn’t?”

“Nothing, so you may as well come in.”

“But I _am_ in.”

“Come out, whatever. Don’t be a knob.” They open the lock by biodata scan, and there he is, apparently unarmed. _Still a little fella,_ again _, but oh, what a smile. These big eyes, this air of innocence… It's almost superfluous that he’s the best telepath I know. Just give people a look and they’ll do anything for him. Good job I know better. Wish I_ didn’t _know better._

He stands back a little and gazes up and down, quite obviously impressed, “my dear Doctor! You _are_ looking well! But why the spanner?”

“Oh, you know, just for old Time’s sake.” That gets a laugh. Gods and Founders, this is going almost too well. _What the Other is he up to?_

“Sooooooo, Theeeete…” he says conspiratorially, “I hear there’s a _paradox_ going around.”

“Oof.” The Doctor deflates a little. Has he only come to gloat at their inopportunity?

On the other hand… they could use another set of brains on the problem. “What do you know about this… situation? And how did you find me?”

“Oh, just popped into the vortex and searched for your TARDIS’ signature… tuned out the other one, and there you were!”

“But I had the masking up!”

“Well, you know me… Always gotta add a little something extra. Trade secret.”

Now it’s the Doctor’s turn to laugh. He’s probably done something time-consuming and rather risky, like putting his own mind online with the TARDIS’s in order to increase its telepathic sensitivity, and now he’s trying to make something a bit desperate sound high-tech. _Good old Koschei, never change…_

“Anyway, I find myself… oddly _free_ at the moment. Fancy a cuppa?”

“Absolutely gasping for one.”

* * *

The Doctor starts walking back to the console room at a brisk pace, only belatedly noticing that their old friend, despite his energetic new regeneration, can't quite keep up.

His smart trousers and well-shined shoes don't give much away, but his right leg is obviously a bit… wonky. If they had to guess, remembering Koschei's trademark impulsivity... something about the angle reminds them of a break that hasn't healed right. They gesture at his cane instead: “What've you done to yourself this time?”

“Jumped off the Eiffel Tower.”

The Doctor laughs. “Fine, you needn't tell me.”

“Surely you don't begrudge me a fashion accessory.” He expertly shifts his weight to his left leg and twirls the cane, which _is_ rather a nice one.

“Never.” But they slow their stride to match his steps.

Over tea (in proper china, of course), they both discuss the basics of what they know, though the Doctor leaves out some pertinent facts that they consider… private. They assume that Koschei is doing the same; that’s just how the game works.

A while later, when the Doctor breaks out their stash of Quoironian brandy, the two of them are no closer to figuring out the mystery of the overlapping chronologies, but they’re having a great time.

The Doctor hasn’t mentioned what exactly they were on the run from, nor the other Doctor’s strange revelation to Gat about the destruction of their homeworld. They have, however, been wondering what their old friend knows about it.

Finally, _he_ brings it up! “So… how d’you feel about Gallifrey these days?”

“Nice place to visit, but I shouldn’t like to live there.”

“No, but seriously.”

“Seriously, considering the latest dealings I’ve had with superiors from back home? If I heard the lot of ‘em disappeared from out the universe, I wouldn’t shed a tear.”

“I may just have some really _really_ good news for you.”


	10. (Master PoV)

They’ve toasted the fall of Gallifrey, the disappearance of the Council, and the still-mysterious circumstances that have allowed this intersection of timelines. They've both let themselves get just that bit squiffy, willing the strong liquor to work its way through their systems, though not so drunk that either has let themself reveal anything of import.

Whenever he thinks about leaving, the Master's eyes well with tears yet again. His villainous escapades on Earth are still in this Doctor’s future; they’ll learn to distrust him, not playfully like now, but in earnest.

The Master promises to let the Doctor know as he recovers more details of what really happened on Gallifrey. Something compels him to find excuses not to lose them, not to lose this chance.

It’s not just this Doctor’s physicality (although their stature and demeanour fill all his senses with admiration), that’s never been the _main_ attraction for their kind, with mutability being the standard… If he were to be _completely_ honest with himself, he’s missed the openness with the one kindred mind he knows. He longs for these old days, when they were both closer to their shared youth, when he had not yet earned the Doctor’s scorn, and they had only just begun to earn his fear.

This Doctor makes an excellent performance of strength and hauteur, but must still be reeling from self-rediscovery. He yearns to touch their face, smooth the worry lines and lie to them that everything will work out… but he fears, under the blissful shock of a connection, letting his shields down and showing too much.

“I should…” He makes a halfhearted move to get up.

“Kosch'… don't go.” The Doctor reaches out a hand, stops just short of touching him.

“You’ll be fine; you always save the day.” Technically, at least one out of the two statements is true.

“And you, you always survive.”

The Master does his best effort at a cheeky grin, but it dissolves too soon. He squeezes his eyes shut, though not fast enough, and swallows back a sob.

“What’s going on in that noggin, love?”

The Master buries his face in his hands, digs his fingers through his hair to grip his scalp painfully hard. Perhaps, he is holding on for dear life. “Too much.”

“Oh, don’t I know the feeling!” They hesitate.

He looks up, rubbing his eyes, in time to see the Doctor’s long, serious face soften even more.

“Stay the night, keep me company.”

“I will, Doctor. I will.”

 _Is it an invitation to… eventual… contact?_ After the absolute tease of that handshake on the Eiffel Tower, the other Doctor’s been avoiding him since the crashing disappointment of the hypercube message (for which, it must be admitted, he has only himself to blame)… And now the Master’s mind burns with loneliness. This Doctor, he reasons, might feel much the same. The hope of it all is nearly too much to bear.

“Let’s see if the Old Girl can find you a room.”

“I’m not sleepy. That is, if you’re not. If-- if you still feel like… talking?”

The Doctor’s face goes through a series of emotions before they answer, very deliberately. “I must admit _I’m_ knackered. Not that many hours ago, I still thought I was a human, and it’s--” they shake their head automatically, as if trying to dislodge the last cobwebs from their consciousness. “It’s been… quite a day.”

“Oh! Yes, of course. A rest… might do us both good.”

“Come along then.” The Doctor rises and leads the way, their stride completely steady despite the amounts of brandy they’ve put back.

The Master follows. He’s glad he brought the cane, as his mind and his gait have both gone a bit wobbly. That ankle never healed quite right; it’s not his fault that he forgot to rest, or that he kept having ideas that necessitated running about the TARDIS. Well, maybe it _is_ his fault. His free hand makes a fist, digging neatly clipped nails into his palm.

The guest room the Doctor offers him, not far down the main corridor, is comfortable if spartan. Everything seems perfectly in order, but they stand in the doorway, their face studiously impassive.

“Very kind of you, my dear Doctor.”

“See you in the morning, then.” They don’t move.

The Master suddenly realises how shaky his legs are, and sits down abruptly. He looks up at the Doctor.

“Is there… anything else you need?”

Courage boils up inside him, quite unexpectedly. “Yes. Yes, there very much is.”

The Doctor smiles, but not their easy laughter of earlier in the evening. A slow, tentative, gentle quirk spreads their usually serious mouth and dimples their cheeks. Eventually, the optimism reaches their eyes. They wait.

“G--give us a cuddle, Theta? Like we used to.” The Master moves his cane out of the way and pats the duvet beside him.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“I’m not sure of anything, today.” He thought that would sound clever, until his voice breaks on the last word.

The Doctor laughs, but seems to be laughing _with_ , not _at_ him. “No, nor am I.”

They shrug off their coat, hanging it neatly on a chair-back, and sit at his left. _So_ close, but not quite touching. They settle themself with a little shake, like a bird rearranging its feathers, and he knows that inwardly they’re probably putting the finishing touches on their mental shields.

He’s tempted to grant them nearly full access, as he did with the other Doctor in Paris. But few of his memories were news to the other Doctor, only his sincerity at that moment. _This_ Theta Sigma hasn’t lived all of that disappointment yet, and he feels he’d do anything to spare them it. _Almost anything. Maybe even-- Or at least--_ “You know it’s not easy for me to say this, but maybe you’re ri--”

But the Doctor has moved first, just as casual and just as magical as one child throwing their arm round another child’s shoulders. Seeking a place to land, their fingers lightly trace the areas of thick scar-tissue on his right shoulder through the soft knit fabric. He daren’t look up, but their face is near his, now; their voice low and soft.

“Recent?”

“Recent-ish,” he admits.

“Painful?”

“Not anymore.”

Still, the Doctor brings their hand up and along his shoulder, to linger near the Master’s collar… a mere centimetre from bare skin and telepathic contact. Their minds reach out towards each other; he can feel the tingle of their biodata already seeking the path of least resistance.

“I’ll only hurt you.” _No no no no no-- why did I say that?!_

“Hmm?” _And why are they so calm?_

“In your future. We never-- we always-- we keep being cruel to each other.” He still hasn’t met their eyes. He can’t. This time he doesn’t try to stop his tears; they spill out and fall on the hands that he’s twisting and contorting in his lap. “Oh, Doctor… you won’t like it. You won’t like _me_ , when you see who I’ve been.”

“I think that’s for me to decide, don’t you?”

“But you _have_ decided. Other yous.”

“But not _this_ me.”

The Master swallows, sits up straighter, dries his hands on his trousers, and turns a little to face the Doctor. His right hand is shaking like mad as he brings it up towards their cheek, and not just because of those damaged shoulder muscles.

“Here,” he says, as he dissolves the rest of his mental barriers. But he can't bring himself to make the link.

The Doctor is so close that they're a bit out of focus, but the Master can see the hollows under their eyes, and his needs waver in the face of theirs: “You're tired, love. We can do this another time.”

“I want to know…” _Is it me they want to know, or themself? Can we even separate the strands anymore?_

Maybe he strokes their cheek first and the relief of making contact calms the tremors in his arm, or maybe the Doctor touches the hair at the nape of his neck first and that gives him the impetus. Hardly a nanospan later they're clinging together in the tightest possible embrace, faces pressed together in a head to head broadband connection, trying not to pant into each other's ears as their excitement and adrenaline rise. Not that the noise would matter, as the flood of communication overwhelms all their many senses for a little while. Othering Omega, he’s missed this. All the echoing caverns of the Master’s mind, space evolved for interfacing the entire hivemind, fill with new experiences, delicious both because they are not his, and because they are the Doctor’s. Their work as a history enforcer has injured them deeply, shaken their sense of self, their sense of meaning. It’s all… rather too familiar for him. _That's those Council Otherfuckers all over, punishing the renegades, then using us to do their dirty work._ The Doctor’s hurt and anger and curiosity and hope mesh inextricably with his own. And yet mindsharing is still the greatest high, overloading all the circuits, it’s like having four brains at once, all conspiring towards an explosion of, not just knowing, not just feeling, but something beyond the sum of all senses.

Of course, and here’s the real downer, he’s also feeling the Doctor experiencing all of _his_ memories. The Master's consciousness slides back to the present for a moment, _not that I'm ashamed to watch you witness anything I've done, it’s just… boring to see it repeated._ The Doctor's mind calls rubbish on that, but in the shared headspace, they're still processing all they've seen.

The Master doesn't loosen his grip, but surely any moment now, they'll push him away and send him packing back to his own TARDIS, invitation rescinded. He tries to enjoy the moment. Despite their warmth, the Doctor smells a bit Cerulean, like plants and glaciers, and the texture of their locs tickles his nose. He snuggles his face into the crisp folds of fabric at the neck of their blouse, and waits.

 _All that_ (their mind gestures, a bit dismissively he thinks, at his recent lives) _… Is what you have been, or what you are?_

_I don't know_

_Is this the way you intend to continue?_

_I can't remember how to be anything else_

_What do you want?_

_I want y-- I want to be with you._

_I've got an idea._

_Doctor--_

_We've both done some terrible things… or will do? Doing my head in, all this._

_I shouldn't have come_

_I'm glad you're here_

_?!?!_

_With the Council and the CIA gone, there's nothing stopping us_

_????_

_We can bend the timelines… just a little… Just enough to escape our destinies_

_It’s too dangerous_

_Everything is dangerous. Surely together we’re a match for it_

_You would do that for me?!_

_For us._

_Us… ?_

_You needn’t decide now. Think it over. We’ve all the time in the universe_

And with that, the Doctor’s mind drains away (the Master’s still holding them close, has never let loose) and their body slumps against his.

He almost panics, but they’re breathing slow and quiet: they’ve only fallen into a heavy and dreamless sleep of exhaustion.

They’re so deep asleep that he manages to pull the duvet out from under them, lay them back on his pillow, and take off their boots, all without waking them. They only rouse, if you can call it that, enough to roll onto their side and say “Give us a cuddle, Koschei…”

The Master curls up behind the Doctor, pulls the duvet over them both, and turns out the lights by having a quick word with the wall. He lies there in the semi-dark, eyes wide open, staring at nothing, his thoughts a whirlwind.


	11. (Master PoV)

When the TARDIS illumines its interior walls with artificial morning, the Master still hasn’t slept. He’d say he’s not one for gratitude, but something ~~that _he_ would never describe as tenderness~~ has kept him huddled along the Doctor’s back all night, guarding their dreams.

Well, they didn’t dream, but if they had, he’d have been ready.

His injuries had got him out of the habit of lying on his right side like this. By the time he noticed, the Doctor was beginning to stir if the Master so much as shifted. So he couldn’t get up or even turn over without waking them. If he could soothe their emotional pain from the recent events? It was something to do, take his mind off his own physical aches.

Now the Doctor wakes with a jolt, their brains getting up to speed at an alarming rate. Shielding their mind again, they shake off all residual connection, and even shake off his hand from their arm. They stand up a little stiffly, muttering incredulities under their breath.

While the Doctor’s looking the other way, they can’t see the Master grimace in pain. He eases himself onto his back, then barks out a sarcastic “good morning to you, too!” _That’s what I get for being nice. Every single fooking time. ~~So what if I can count those times on one hand?!~~_

They turn back and glare down at him. The Master doesn’t need any kind of telepathy to read their face as they try to come to terms with what they’ve got themself into. “We-- we’ve made some sort of a commitment.” _Almost_ a question, but not quite.

He answers it anyway. “Oh, noothing important. You’ve only asked me to defy both our timelines and come away with you, no strings attached.”

“You haven’t agreed yet.”

He’s sore, tired, annoyed. “And if I had? You having buyer’s remorse? Gonna bung me back in the vortex and leg it?”

“I should expect you to make yourself useful about the place.”

“If I feel like it.” The penny drops. “Hang about… I haven’t agreed, ‘ _yet_ ’?!”

The Doctor laughs: “That’s more like it.”

The Master dislikes the feeling of someone standing over him, even the Doctor. He shoves a pillow behind him and sits up, with his left side pulling most of the weight.

The Doctor watches him, their brows furrowed in concern: “You’re looking a bit off-colour.”

“Haven’t slept much, spent all night… thinking.” _That is to say: worrying. I keep wanting to open up to them… even more so than with the other Doctor… Am I going soft?!_ “And,” he gestures to his right side, “I’m in sort of a lot of pain.”

“Sorry, love, what d’you need?” This Doctor’s moods, just like his, appear to be capable of those hairpin bends. Absolutely without sarcasm, _this is gonna be fun_.

“Drugs?” he says, hopefully.

“Should be some analgesics in the cupboard just there.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Thete.” The Master leans over to the bedside cabinet and rummages through the first aid supplies inside. Having found a decently strong painkiller, he swallows one tablet dry, then flops back on the pillow and pulls the duvet up to his chest.

Meanwhile the Doctor retrieves their coat from the chair and puts it on like a cape. _They always keep their TARDIS on the chilly side. Probably on purpose, so they can wear all those layers._ They sit down, smoothing out the folds of wool around them. “Since we’re… sharing…” Their face softens, “I should tell you.” But then they just stare ahead, lost in thought.

“What is it?”

“Well, you _know_ , don’t you?” the Doctor shakes themself, “It’s just… I’m still rattled. But you saw how they-- how I-- ugh, it’s not _right_ \--”

“The other Doctor?”

“Yes, I don’t think I shielded that bit. Too upset, had to show someone. I don’t _want_ that future.”

> The Master remembers:
> 
> The confident superiority in the other Doctor’s eyes and voice as they took charge of human-Ruth… “ **Do you know what you've just done? Who _are_ you?**”
> 
> Their disdain when the paradox is revealed: “ **I've never been anything like you. Trust me, I'd remember.** ” Pretending it’s a discussion about fashion, but it’s more than that. It’s _always_ more than that.
> 
> This Doctor’s sense of self, their dignity, stretched to the breaking point by their CIA work. More recently, decades spent as a human, subject to other humans’ assumptions.
> 
> He remembers, in Paris, what lengths the other Doctor nearly went to: they were prepared to break his perception filter if that deal hadn’t been arrived at.
> 
> The other Doctor never treated O that way, unlike the one bloke at MI6 who tried to pass his alien-obsession off as some sort of ‘foreign superstition’. _Of course, that’s down to them being extraterrestrial themself. They know humans are like children: you’ve got to keep them from running into traffic or sticking their fingers in a power point._

With some difficulty, the Master gets his mind back on topic: “You don’t think…? After so many regenerations visiting Earth, have they gone native?”

“Assimilating _human_ biases?” the Doctor looks a bit aghast. “As if Gallifreyans didn’t have enough of our own!”

“Right? Or… they think they can get away with certain things, because they look like,” he makes a gesture, as if framing a face, “typical little English Rose--”

“And we look like us,” says the Doctor, with maybe a tinge of resignation in their voice.

“Mind you,” he feels the need to be contrary, but also… the Doctor is simply splendid in this regeneration, and the Master can’t abide hearing otherwise. “I rather like how we look.” He directs his best adoring gaze at them, soft eyes and a slight dreamy smile making it clear that ‘we’ mostly means ‘you’.

Despite not exactly seeing him at his best, this Doctor obviously fancies him too, but they’re not going to gab on about it. They sit up straighter, though, with a playful glint returning to their eyes: “Proper fit, we are.”

The Master feels that, in the circumstances, he should make an effort to be good company. He disentangles himself from the bed, grabs his cane, and stands up. “What provisions have you got, other than tea? Only… I thought I could make us breakfast.” During his time alone in the Outback, he was finally driven by desperation to learn a few recipes.

“I’m afraid there’s no food, other than protein tablets. I haven’t even been round the shops yet since getting my memory back. But we could go somewhere?”

“Is that safe?”

“Should be, as long as we avoid other instances of ourselves. It’s a big universe!” The Doctor stands up and checks their pockets. “Have you got any money, though? I’ve left Ruth’s wallet behind, not that there was much in it.”

“Oh, actually I have! MI6 were still paying me severance wages until a few weeks ago, when I assassinated my old boss.”

“Of all the things… I never would have expected us to have _that_ in common…”

* * *

They’re sitting in a cozy corner of a busy cafe somewhere in the near future, tucking into a full English fry-up. They speak in Gallifreyan, their voices low enough to avoid attention.

The Master spears a tomato and punctuates a point with a wave of his fork. “I mean… taking advantage of human prejudices… it’s what I’ve always done, given half a chance…”

“Yeah but you’re _you_. You’ve always been a trickster, and these days you’re trying to be a villain.”

“Oi! A bit of respect?” the Master protests, but only single-heartedly.

The Doctor goes on, gesturing with their bread. “But they’re _me_. Supposed to be on the right side of things. Value all sapient life, stick up for the vulnerable. While back home it was all Glorious Gallifrey and all that. Part of why we left…”

“Well, _I_ left because _you_ left. And because it was so--”

The Doctor joins in, so that they say “bloody boring” almost in unison. _Gods and Founders, it’s been too long. For me, if not for them._

“They always find ways to get us back, though, don’t they, when they have a use for us.” The weariness in their voice hurts the Master in aspects of his psyche that he would never confess to having.

“That’s _got_ to have been part of it. Of what I did. Probably.”

“I can’t imagine you forgetting… something so dramatic.”

“No, that’s what’s got me puzzled. That and… whatever else I found out.”

“When you showed me… _that child_ ” the Doctor touches their own temples, remembering, “it felt like I’d caught the dreaded telepathic lurgy, but I couldn’t grab hold of any proper memories before it all dissipated.”

“Buried in heavy shielding, I suppose. Council-level stuff, if not Founders-level.”

“At least the _CIA_ didn’t go in for DNA tampering.”

“Seems more Rassilon’s style, at least in recent eras.”

“I’m still having difficulty believing that anyone in their right mind would bring him back.”

“Never said the Council were in their right minds. Especially not in War time.”

“Fair enough.”

They finish eating in companionable silence, each digesting their own thoughts along with their breakfast. The Master can’t stay still, keeps fidgeting with his silverware. He pays up, and they walk back to the Doctor’s TARDIS.

“I think… there’s a few loose ends I need to tie up with the other Doctor.”

“Ah.”

“I _will_ be back. I really do intend to go away with you. Here,” he holds out his mobile, “Let’s have yours?”

Their smartphones bleep at each other.

“You’d best not be installing a remote detonator app.”

“Ha, good idea! Not this time. Just a tracker, so you can always find me. Heavily encrypted, but your choice if you want it to work in reverse.”

“I’ll be vetting the code as soon as you dematerialise.” They shake their head, but with a smile. “You know, we could have just exchanged numbers.”

“Oh, I’m quite chatty in the chatting apps. You’ll wish we hadn't.”

“Before you go… Confirm something for me? _How_ do they bring Rassilon back?”

“Re-loomed him, of course. They’ve done it to me a few times, as well.”

“Using his biodata from the Matrix?”

“Correct.”

“So, what I’m thinking is… just hypothetically… What would happen if ‘the Doctor’ were deleted at around this point in my timeline, but not retrowiped, right? Matrix data slice still mostly intact. And what if, one day, the Council really needs ‘me’ to do a job for them?”

“My dear Doctor, I think you might be onto something.”


	12. (Yaz PoV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter references Yaz's part of Can You Hear Me episode   
> (Anita is that police lady from the flashback dreams)

_The Doctor doesn’t follow their own rules, but at least they didn’t snog Byron. This time. ~~Wish they’d snog me~~_

~~~~_So much has happened that it feels like it’s been ages since that whole thing with Ruth, and the Doctor's identity crisis. Maybe they’re going to be okay? How would we know, though? They don’t tell us much._

_They don’t let us take initiative, then they mock us for being followers._

_And I guess it’s my fault that this ‘Master’ bloke has done a runner, but the Doctor doesn’t even seem upset about that. Course, I’m not sure they’ve even noticed he’s gone. They're throwing themself into their work because everything else is going pear-shaped. I know that feeling. And there’s stuff the Doctor’s not dealing with, that they need to._

_Maybe Ryan was right the other day; we should be more concerned about our real lives back home? And we could… just get out. But now we’ve said we’ll go into this ultimate cyberbattle with the Doctor. Can I just say, that was a decision taken under great emotional stress. I’m not saying I regret it, but… We might’ve all chosen different if we’d taken a breather first. Maybe. I donno. I can’t just leave the Doctor to face that all alone, either._

_But like, it’s one thing to think you’d like to escape from your reality, and to just run away… get as far as you can walk in a few hours. Eventually you’re gonna realise you’re being daft and go back home. You’re gonna get tired and find out that sleeping rough is shite. Or you’re gonna be that one unlucky person in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or… you’re gonna decide there’s no place for you in the world and act accordingly. If Anita hadn’t found me, I might have gone back home quietly and stayed miserable, I might have ended up in a different job… or I might have done something desperate. My family would’ve missed me, but their lives would have gone on. I’ve seen that time and time again. That’s how it has to be, at least for humans. Our lives are so short, we don’t have that many choices: it’s forward or nowhere._

_But when you’re actually powerful? When you’ve got the whole universe at your doorstep, and what’s more you’ve got people willing to follow you… well, I feel like it’s a little different. I’m not saying I blame the Doctor. I know they’re doing their best. But sometimes I think that their best… isn’t the best for all of us._

* * *

Yaz tries being the early bird again. _Can’t hurt… probably._ She finds them in the electronics lab, sat on the floor with an array of strange devices spread out all around them.

“Doctor, are you really okay?”

“Oh! You startled me, Yaz. Just working on some defensive strategies here.”

“So… no second thoughts? We’re definitely going to stop your… Lone Cyberman?”

“He’s not mine.”

“I mean. Are you sure about this?”

“I’m the Doctor! If _I_ can’t stop the cybermen…” Their voice trails off mid-sentence as they stare away, into their own mind. _Is that rhetorical? Or are they having doubts, too?_

“Right… Erm… Need any help?”

“No, I’ve gotta-- You wouldn’t-- This is… complicated.”

Yaz leaves, but doesn’t go far. She blends into the shadows in the corridor, an old skill from her schooldays that she hadn’t expected would come in handy onboard the TARDIS.


	13. (!Doctor! PoV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is _sort of_ where the Timeless Children spoilers start, if you're being picky. but actual major spoilers won't start in earnest until a later chapter, which i will put a note on when we get there.

The Doctor walks their old friend back down to his TARDIS, not because they don’t trust him wandering their ship’s corridors, nor even because they’re going to feel awfully alone when he leaves. They’re just… still feeling sociable, that’s all.

No need to slow down for him now; he’s hardly limping today. And he talks faster than ever, punctuated with sudden jittery gestures.

They reach the transport bay where his timeship still stands disguised as an architectural feature, and his touch opens a narrow door in the column. He slips through, turning round to face the Doctor.

“Not gonna ask me in?” They’re half-joking, but also just a little curious.

To their surprise, he pulls an embarrassed face rather than moving aside. “It’s, erm… not very nice just now. Been a while since I’ve had the chance to hoover.” _He’s having a laugh, right?_ When it comes to dust and grime, TARDISes are more or less self-cleaning, though they draw the line at organising their symbiotes’ belongings.

“That’s not like you, love.” _Even back at the academy, he were always the tidy one. Even more so when he finally procured his own TARDIS, never a dastardly device out of place._

“I knooow… neat-freak regenerates into hoarder… That’s not meant to happen, is it?!” A self-deprecating laugh doesn’t entirely hide his confusion.

The Doctor tries to be gentle. “You might fancy straightening up once you’re… feeling better.”

“Oh, yes, I’m sure that’s it. Soon as I’ve got a few things sorted.” He jabs a finger at his own head, hard enough that it looks as if it might’ve actually hurt.

But then he shakes himself as if a shiver’s gone down his spine. He slows his movements and crooks his cane over one arm, to very deliberately take both of the Doctor’s hands in his. Their hands are of a similar size, both with long narrow fingers. They fit together well. His mental shields are pretty far down: they can feel his nerves and how much he wants to please them, they can share his anticipation of the coming storm. But he’s put up enough of a barrier to soften those jagged edges where he’s about to crack. “You look after yourself, Theta Sigma. See you soon.”

They give his hands a reassuring squeeze, transmitting mostly fondness and only a little worry. _You know what you’re doing… right, Koschei?_ “Mind how you go.”

He winks, and disconnects reluctantly.

The door clicks closed, and his TARDIS dematerialises.

* * *

The Doctor makes their way to the electronics lab. At times like these, a spot of tinkering usually does the trick. They’ve been thinking of different sorts of scanning devices they could make that might come in handy these days, but mainly they want their hands occupied so their brains can run free, maybe sort out everything that’s happened.

_The half-remembered images that are hardest to think about, the ones that send your mind ricocheting away like the wrong pole of a magnet, those are probably the important bits._

After uncounted hours and several tea-breaks, the Doctor surveys their work. They have built a Judoon Jammer ( _can’t decide if I like the alliteration or not_ ), a Tracking Tracker that goes DING if you’re coming up on anyone’s radar, and at least three passable drafts of a little multi-tool like the one that future Doctor had.

And they still haven’t broken through their mental block about the Timeless Child. They’ve remembered some bits about a past companion, maybe? An immortal Irishman, of all things. But that’s surely got nothing to do with the mystery at hand.

_Is it reckless to run away with Koschei, now that I know everything he’s done? When has the fact that something was reckless ever stopped me? Are we going to hurt each other? Probably. Are we going to help each other? Definitely. How can I be so sure? Am I acting on loneliness and shock? How can I be sure that what we’re running away to isn’t worse than what we’re running away from?_

The Doctor makes a few attempts at travelling. There’s lost time to make up for, after all, and so much to see! They run every planet and era through complex algorithms to make sure there’s no chance of encountering either themself or other Gallifreyans. They visit a few of those that check out, but the sensation of being pursued hangs over them like a fog and prevents them fully enjoying their freedom.

As their bravado fades, it never seems the right time to leave the vortex. They materialise once in a while for supplies, but they find themself constantly looking over their shoulder. More than once they end up abandoning a shop, hearts beating like mad: something seemed ‘off’ and they can’t shake the hypervigilance.

Their ‘mornings’ are devoted to tuning up the ship or working in various labs, ‘afternoons’ to wandering through the gardens, and long ‘nights’ to reading in the library. Do they even still like the same things they used to? In between the strategy and the astrophysics, they find themself missing the sort of books Ruth used to prefer: from Beverly Jenkins and Alyssa Cole to Butler, Jemisin, and Okorafor. The TARDIS finally takes pity on them and uploads some historical romances and Afrofuturist classics into paper volumes. _Yes, I’m old-school; why d’you think I chose you, when Type-40s were already outdated?!_

In the TARDIS gardens, the Doctor used to sometimes forget that the sky and the sunlight were artificial, but now they never do. In fact, it’s a comfort: nothing’s going to come out of _that_ sky. The first time a blue-winged glider swoops between two maple groves, the Doctor slips behind a tree and fumbles in their pockets for a weapon. Luckily for the bird, they aren’t carrying one.

A few times a week, exhaustion forces them to nap, but sleep isn’t something they’ve ever enjoyed, and that hasn’t changed.

Sometimes Koschei sends a text, usually Earth memes or old Gallifreyan puns. Never news or gossip, just something to let them know he’s there.

The Doctor always replies, but doesn’t tell him they’re in a bad way. They don’t even dare admit it to themself, except during nightmares.

* * *

They reckon it’s been at least a fortnight when their mobile dings, waking them from yet another ominous dream. Not many numbers could get through in the vortex, so there’s little doubt who it will be.

> **ive rememberd eVERYTHINGg  
>  gotta go fast 🤣  
>  meet me at citadel  
>  or whats left of it 🦹🏾**
> 
> **What?!  
>  When?  
>  Are you alright?**
> 
> **never better  
>  🤯big ideas!!!!!!!!1!!!  
>  were gonna ahve so much FUN**
> 
> **Koschei, you’re scaring me.  
>  Are you drunk?  
>  What are you playing at?**
> 
> **no worries im scaring myslef aswell  
>  this is dead srs dr  
>  ☠️🤖 get it?  
>  but itll be spectacular**
> 
> **Don’t do anything crazy.  
>  Until I get there.**
> 
> **and its all about youuuuuuu  
>  fuck earth english tbh  
>  plural you  
>  all of you  
>  doctor you**
> 
> **Are you telling the other one as well?  
>  If it concerns all of us?**
> 
> **about to**
> 
> **Good luck!  
>  Be diplomatic, though.**
> 
> **always!!!**

_Well, now. This_ is _interesting. Going to Gallifrey now, at least I can be sure that the most dangerous people around will be the three of us._


	14. (Yaz PoV)

Yaz hasn’t been watching long when uneven, almost-familiar footsteps approach from the other corridor.

 _Aha!_ The Master sticks his head in the far side door, grinning at the Doctor’s back. He looks rough, like he’s seen more in a week than anyone should. But like, also manic. _Whatever’s happened to him, he probably deserved it._

If he sees her observing from across the way, he gives no indication.

The Doctor continues working, so concentrated that they’ve noticed nothing. “Augh! Brains! Do your thing, can’t you?!” They mutter, slapping both sides of their head.

Yaz grimaces along with them. _Why can’t I help?! The ex had better do something, now he’s turned up, cos they won’t let_ me _. Why are humans so useless?! Why am_ I _so useless?!_

The Master opens with: “Have you tried hitting your head on a monitor? Works for me.” _Not a great start, to be honest._

The Doctor turns to look up at him, more annoyed than surprised. “You-- Not. Helping. Go away!”

“Fine, fine. I’ll just… take myself _and all my brains_ back to my TARDIS.”

“Good.”

“Buh bye. Going. Any moment now.”

“Why are you still here?”

“I’ve been watching you.”

“Cos that’s not creepy at all. I said I’d let you know when I was ready to talk.”

“This cyberwar.”

“Got your fingers in _that_ pie, too? Surely you know better, after the last time.”

“Why are _you_ getting involved, then?”

“Someone’s got to stop them.”

“With rubbish like _that_?!”

“It _might_ work. There’s a good chance.”

“If you call fifteen percent ‘good’.”

“Are you here to gloat, or to help?!”

“I’m here to offer you… a chance to fight fire with fire.”

“No. You know that’s not my way.”

“But I’ve found my records. I’ve remembered.”

“Tell me later?”

“DOCTOR, don’t you want to _know_?! This explains YOU, and Gallifrey, and EVERYTHING!”

The Doctor returns to bending over their devices. “Right now, it doesn’t matter what I want. Got a cyberwar to stop. Try to help the last survivors.” The calm and confidence in their voice are absolute… and mostly fake.

The Master hears it too, of course, and rolls his eyes. This time, he’s looking directly at Yaz.

She points towards the junction of the two corridors and heads that way herself. It’s not that she minds being discovered, it’s more that… of all the people to pay attention to her… _This guy isn’t just not-the-Doctor, he’s lichrally their opposite._

* * *

“You’re back.”

Up close, she sees his eyes are bloodshot and he looks like he hasn’t slept in days. Or… whatever counts as a long time for the Doctor’s people. He runs a hand through his unruly fringe, making it even more so. “You missed me!”

She's not going to let him get to her, though. “Nope.”

“Oof.” He pouts, briefly. “But how’s the Doctor?”

“You’ve just seen them. Hard to tell, innit.”

“Have they… said anything?”

“Loads. You know how they are.”

“About me, I mean.”

“Well, you know, they like to keep their… cards… to themself. Whatever.”

“You really _are_ bad at gambling. Can’t even do the metaphors.”

“Hey, we lost together.” _I see what you’re doing. I’m not stupid. I know how to build rapport with a suspect._

“Fancy another go?”

“What exactly are you asking?”

“Take a chance. A leap of… I won’t be so naive as to say faith. Just a leap.”

“Still not clear. Did you and the Doctor go to the same school of bullshit?!”

“Yes, we did, actually. Best obfuscation techniques in the Universe. Next question.”

“What are you offering and what's the catch?”

“Two questions in one breath! String or nothing. Come travel with me and the Doctor. The _other_ Doctor, I mean. The one who’s not avoiding me and disrespecting you.”

“Wait, what?”

“You met the other Doctor as Ruth, when they were living as a human.”

“Why were the Judoon after her?”

“The Doctor had a disagreement with their former employers on our home planet.”

“And why are you leaving the-- _our_ Doctor? I thought you two were pretty… attached.”

“You could say that. I think they would disagree.”

“What’s your agenda here? What are you really aiming for?”

“Yasmin Khan, asking the important questions.”

“It’s sort of my job?”

“Will you believe me if I tell you the truth?”

“Try me.”

“I’m tired. And I miss ‘em.”

“That’s it?!”

“Yeah. That’s it.”

“What are you tired of?”

“Being what the Council made me. That’s… that _was,_ ” he smiles, full Cheshire cat, “sort of TimeLord parliament, if you like. Our leaders have _used_ me and the Doctor. Among other things, they forced us to carry out their wars, and other… sordid _errands_ that they considered beneath them.”

“You do realise that by inviting me, you’re accepting what I said last time? You can’t go on hurting people.”

He ducks his head, suddenly solemn. “Oh yes. Understood loud and clear.”

“You’ve got tired of murder and mayhem as well?” This must be all a joke, so Yaz is playing along.

He whispers conspiratorially, “Don’t tell anyone.”

“Wouldn’t want to spoil your cool villain image.”

“Exactly.”

“Okay so, even assuming you were telling the truth… What’s in it for me?”

“You’re too young to die.”

“How am I any _less_ likely to die travelling with someone who’s already tried to kill me?”

“You once asked what I’m the Master _of_. Surviving, that’s what.”

“Okay, so you sorted slytherin, I get it. But like. What’s that got to do with me?”

“Your Doctor didn’t even want to regenerate last time they died. They’re taking too many risks. Self-destructive ones. With _three_ of you little humans in tow.”

Yaz tries to disregard his dismissive phrasing: “Why do you care? You don’t even like us.”

“Believe me, there’s nothing I enjoy more than seeing the Doctor go berserk. It has a comforting familiarity. But they’re _immortal_ ,” he spits out the word, shivers, then continues in a more normal voice, “for all intents and purposes. Our species is. Seems a waste to let the Doctor take you down with them.”

“A waste?”

“Worthy opponents are hard to come by.”

“Oi, flattery will get you nowhere.”

“Pity. Cos I really _really_ meant it this time.” _He’s making puppy dog eyes._ That _doesn’t even work on the Doctor._

Still, Yaz feels she ought to make some gesture of goodwill. “So, erm… you and the other Doctor… I hope it all works out.”

“Good luck to you too, Yasmin Khan. You’ll need it.”

_Is that a threat or… just a fact of life with the Doctor?!_

The Master turns to go, but only walks a few steps before pulling out a device from his waistcoat pocket.

 _Oh._ Yaz freezes, caught by curiosity and… that thing she tries not to think about. _Maybe this is it. Maybe today's the day._ But then self-preservation kicks in, and she spins and runs as fast as she can in the opposite direction. She doesn’t stop until she's reached her own room and locked the door behind her.

She flops on the bed, adrenaline still buzzing through her limbs, and tries to quiet her breath so she can listen for any noise in the corridor. Wait, some of that buzzing is… outside her leg: her mobile. And it’s not the Doctor, she’s got a special ringtone for them.

> **just in case 😜**
> 
> **wow!!  
>  its not a weapon**
> 
> **okay it is**
> 
> **sortof a multitool  
>  im just using the sms tho**
> 
> **anyway  
>  keep in touch pc kahn**
> 
> **💜💜**
> 
> **how did you get my number**
> 
> **theres an app for that  
>  i wrote one  
> its not illegal in the vortex  
> i checked**
> 
> **that doesnt mean its okay.**
> 
> **if you meant it  
>  about being friends  
> youve gotta stop creeping on people.**
> 
> **ok ok  
>  🙏🏽☮️**
> 
> **i wont block you  
>  this time  
> 😒**
> 
> **💜💜**

Yaz finally lets herself relax, laughing quietly as it dawns on her the full tinfoil-hat ridiculousness of what her life has become. _Time travel isn’t even meant to be possible, but we’ve been all over history and here I am making friends with evil aliens. No way in hell I’m ever going back._


	15. (Master PoV) FLASHBACK

The Master had left the Doctor in a hurry, sure that something was about to burst inside his mind: they shouldn’t have to see that, not _this_ Doctor. Once he was alone in his own TARDIS, though, all the urgency drained out of him-- except a pressing need to stumble towards a bed and fall immediately asleep.

When he finally dragged himself upright a few days(?) later, his thoughts had slowed to match the clutter and subdued colours around him. Not slow as in calm, though. Lime gears rusted together: Slow as in stuck.

There followed hours and then days of staring into monitors, searching his files, subsisting on litres of strong tea, pacing until his ankle gave out… all to no avail. The Master shook his head hard, then hit it even harder with the heel of his hand… hard enough to reset _anything_. His primary brain still felt like it had been scooped out and replaced with an unwieldy mixture of gravel and cotton-wool. If only he could find something that would make him remember, surely then he would snap awake and function at speed. If he hadn’t made any records of his discovery, he must at least have taken a souvenir.

He scooted his desk-chair across the room until it hit a pile of notebooks, then pulled his feet up onto the footrest and let the seat spin slowly round and round. Where his knees pointed when the spinning stopped, he started digging. Seven boxes and three piles later, something promising clattered out and rolled into view! A brass cylinder, old-school Gallifreyan memory storage. There’s only one place he was likely to have pinched this from: the Matrix chamber of the Citadel. Surely this would explain everything.

He gave a little laugh, derisive or nostalgic? Probably both. The Founders could have used microstorage, nano even. Not like Gallifrey didn’t have the technology for that sort of thing, even in the old days. But no, they had to keep people’s memories in dramatic great _tubes_ : hard to lose, sure, but more importantly, hard to steal. And godsforbid someone or Other wanted to take back their own portion of the Matrix, have control over their own recollections. Gallifrey didn’t belong to you, _you_ belonged to Gallifrey. His mind was prickling again, just under the surface, like water about to boil… something was imminent.

The Master ran to the console, well, he tried to. At the first step, pain shot through his bad ankle. _STUPID STUPID STUPID FUCK_ \-- No need to keep it under his breath now, except that it was hard to shout with teeth clenched. He fell back into his chair and rolled carefully towards the bank of monitors.

Now, what could he use to cobble together a Data Extract reader? _See, this is the positive side of keeping everything “just in case”. If you need something, you’ve probably got it… if only you can find it._

A couple of hours later, he had several crates of parts strewn around the floor and counter and his leg elevated awkwardly on one of the empty containers. He’d assembled what should probably, 68% likely, work well enough. He extracted the array of circuitry from the cylinder, blew some dust off it, then hooked up the reader. No mystery whose biodata he’d nabbed a copy of. It would be the Doctor's. But his crude device didn't have pinpoint accuracy so it was anyone’s guess where in their timeline he’d start… or whether he'd been able to save a copy of what he'd discovered.

He put on the headpiece, uncomfortably tight at the temples to ensure a good telepathic interface, and tried to savour the moment before pressing the button.

 _ALL SHALL PRESENTLY BE REVEALED!_ His audience, sadly, remained unimpressed. _Own worst critic. Sigh. Alright, nothing for it…_

Whether or not he closed his eyes, the monitors of the TARDIS console and in fact his entire awareness of his body and surroundings disappeared, not only visually but from all senses. Even a tiny slice of the Matrix filled all the negative space in his mental landscape:

> _**suncooked-grass  
>  **__Warm red fields as far as we can see  
>  __**footsteps-birds-laughter-shouts  
>  **_My robe swishes as we run  
>  _Holding my new toy in my little hands  
>  __**glint-on-silver-wings  
>  **_His melancholy eyes  
>  _his clever grin  
>  __he reaches out  
>  __**best-happy-proud  
>  **_I’m not ready to share just yet  
>  _**pull-push-  
>  **_I back up  
>  _**crumble-  
>  **_**_jolt-  
>  _**Nothing to stand on  
>  _**topple-  
>  **_**_weightless-  
>  _**I’m flying  
>  _**wind-**  
>  _No I’m not  
>  _**bash-  
>  **_**_crumple-  
>  _****_pain-head-pain-legs-pain-pain-pain  
>  _**_Change starts deep inside like a tummy ache  
>  Then I taste it in my fingers and my mouth  
>  __**iron-copper-burning-  
>  **_The fireworks, oh.  
>  _**stars-  
>  **_Oh, it's my turn  
>  _**crescendo-  
>  **_Oh! Here I go!  
>  **_nothing_ **

The Timeless Child’s version of the First Regeneration on Gallifrey blazed through the Master's mind, levelling all barriers.

His fingers scrabbled at the headset and tore it off, but it didn't matter. Everything came rolling back, waves and waves of old secrets, too much pain, too many lies, too much everything. He knew he knew he knew what happened next. The experiments on that mystery child who would become the Doctor, the founding of Gallifrey, Theta Sigma trapped in service to their kidnappers, brainwiped, reloomed, not knowing how many childhoods or even how many lives they'd had. The parallels and the contrasts were obvious. The Doctor's stolen DNA spliced into everyone in their species, regeneration loomed into future generations. Both of them turned, against their will, into weapons of the Division and the Council. The Doctor's ungiven DNA, living uninvited in all of the Master's cells, but NOT ONLY IN HIS, in _everyone’s_ cells. No wonder no wonder no _wonder_! The Doctor, first of their kind. The Master, indistinguishable among millions of others. Not special. Not compared to the Doctor. Just one stupid evil… nothing. Like they'd told him so many times.  
_But at least I took our revenge already, not that they'll thank me for it._

The Master swayed in his seat, the failsafes left in his consciousness threatening to put him under. _Not again._ He couldn't bear to repeat the dual injury of relosing and regaining this knowledge.

He struggled to his feet, this time remembering his cane. The dizziness would barely let him walk as it was, but this called for pacing to make the brains work right. When his bad ankle began to hurt, so much the better. Pain grounded him in the present and associated the memories to something that was always with him, tied the mental hurt to the physical. _Walk and talk, walk and talk_. He reviewed what he'd learned, practiced it like a PowerPoint presentation, as if he were telling it to strangers, recording a documentary on the history of Gallifrey. By the time he'd gone through everything twice, his voice was beginning to betray him, so he practiced telling it to the Doctor, then to the other Doctor… Alone he could shout and grimace, whimper and whisper, roar and moan; testing out which he found most effective to maintain their attention and appeal to their sympathies.

Perhaps a sensible person would have made notes, or even texted a friend the truth. But this is _The Master_ we're talking about, whose greatest tool and greatest liability had always been his own brains. He had to get back control of his own memories, and he had to do it his way. He only let himself rest when he was sure he'd ground down (just as surely as the tibia was grinding against the talus) the mental blocks that kept the terrible secret of the Other hidden in plain sight in every timelord's mind.

**Author's Note:**

> please leave a comment, especially concrit or britpicking
> 
> PS: unsure when I will be back


End file.
